


wretched, wretched (and yet with good intentions)

by belatrix



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Negan's bad at Feelings, Power Play, Season/Series 07, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 02:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belatrix/pseuds/belatrix
Summary: Negan's not the one on the floor, but he might as well have been.[or: Negan brings a bed back to Alexandria, and Rick doesn't follow the script.]





	wretched, wretched (and yet with good intentions)

**Author's Note:**

> A messy mess of a speed-write, because I made the mistake of re-watching s7 instead of studying for finals. 
> 
> Alternately titled, _Negan Has Feelings And It Confuses Him._

 

 

 

Honestly, Rick should be looking a bit more _grateful_ right about now.

No, scratch that, Rick should be looking a fuck ton more grateful right about now, because it’s seriously not often that Negan goes out of his way to do something nice like this. Especially not for a man who’s gone on a murder spree against Negan’s own people without blinking, who’s made a habit of glaring at Negan like he could burn a hole through his skull if he just tried hard enough, who―

“A bed,” Rick says, very unnecessarily, eyes narrowed in something like surprise, something like suspicion. His whole body’s tight with wariness, every muscle pulled tight, guarded. If he had his gun, his fingers would be hovering right over the handle.

Negan smiles with teeth, gives him a one-shouldered shrug. He’s sprawled across that very bed, over the nice grey comforter and the nice soft pillows he’d gone and chosen by himself, had his men carry all the way from one of his outposts along with the mattress and the bed frame.

He flings an arm behind his head, sits back more comfortably, “well, yeah, Rick, you’re a real fucking genius, only took you a full minute to figure out what this is.”

Rick swallows, shifts his weight a little like he’s mapping the exits, expecting the trap. The catch. A cornered animal, the kind that will either run or lash out and bite you, you can’t exactly tell, so keep away. It’s hilarious ―and it’s really not. Because Rick, he’s still an unknown variable. Not a threat, exactly, but Negan sometimes feels like he has to tread carefully, like the man before him is sharpening a knife behind his back every time Negan’s not looking.

And, fine, that might be part of the reason for today’s small kindness; Negan is not unreasonable. He understands how things _work_. And sometimes, just sometimes, you maybe have to give a small something in order to keep getting things in return. Fear is what works best, the surest way to ensure submission, but men like Rick can work through fear. Given enough time.

“Why,” Rick says, low, harsh, and it’s not a question.

His shirt is sticking to his body with sweat, dust and dirt plastered to his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up, skin flushed, hair curling along his nape and right behind his ears; _he’s out on a run_ , feisty little Rosita told Negan, tilting her chin up in defiance as soon as he strolled up to Alexandria’s gate, _and what the fuck are you even doing here?_

Negan had waved a hand theatrically behind, where four of his men were lugging the bed off a truck. _Do me a fucking favor, sweetheart, and tell him to come meet me at his place when he’s back_ , he’d said, grinning cheerfully at the fearful, skittish crowd that’d gathered around them. _I got a sweet little somethin’ just for him_.

Rick had practically run up the stairs, alright. Negan heard him crash through the front door and he heard his footsteps, heavy and frantic across wooden floorboards, could almost feel the air around him shift with every strangled breath Rick was heaving as he made a mad dash through his bedroom door, blue eyes like dinner plates looking madly around.

Rick, panting, worried as all hell, looking like he’d choke on his own heartbeat. Negan loved that look on him ―and, at the same time, didn’t. He’s not sure how that works, precisely, or why, so he doesn’t dwell on it. Not now.

Negan’s not _vain_ , thank you very much, but he’s pretty sure there are worse sights to come home to than him laid out on a nice, comfortable bed, complete with clean fucking sheets and no less than two huge-ass pillows. He’d probably understand Rick’s feral glare if he’d been waiting for him naked, because _that_ ’d be something straight out of a bad porno, and then Rick would maybe have the right to look mildly scandalized. But Negan’s very much decent, so―

So, “ _why_?” he repeats, arching an eyebrow in the practiced, belligerent way that’s made more than a few men flinch away.

Rick doesn’t take the bait, because Rick’s not that easy; his face hardens, though, forehead creasing and eyes flashing with something caught between anger and that unsure kind of helplessness. It probably belongs to Negan, that look ―he hasn’t seen Rick use it on anyone else, and he wonders if Rick knows that.

“What the fucking fuck do you mean, _why_? I brought you a goddamn _present,_ Rick, and that sure as hell ain’t something I generally _do_ , so where the fuck are your manners?”

Rick lets out a sharp breath, fingers clenching. He’d probably hurl himself across the room and strangle Negan on that bed, if he hadn’t seen Arat with her guns in prominent display downstairs, right on Rick’s quaint little porch. It makes Negan’s smile widen still; he does _like_ the way Rick’s mouth curls in a half-snarl, no point in denying it.

“You gonna break it in tonight? It sure feels pretty sturdy, doesn’t even squeak. Although I gotta tell you, Rick, sometimes I like to hear a bit of squeaky-bed myself. Kind of adds to the whole thing.” It’s not what Negan wanted to say, but sometimes when he’s looking at Rick he says things he wasn’t exactly intending to say.

“I―” Rick’s mouth almost drops open, but he reins it in well enough. His face does color a bit, though, and it’s so awfully lame and so weirdly sweet on him that Negan almost feels like someone’s slapped him, and fuck, he’s getting hard. How is he even _getting_ hard from this ―seriously, this is erotic novel cliché no. 364, and people generally move beyond getting hot and bothered at the drop of a hat once they’re past sixteen, Jesus.

“Negan,” Rick says eventually, sounding oh-so terribly affronted, and then he just closes his mouth, almost looks away.

He can’t exactly tell if Rick’s embarrassed ―or furious. Should a guy be able to pull off both, at the same time? Negan isn’t sure _he_ could, but then, Negan isn’t sure he can remember the last time he _was_ embarrassed. Well.

“Shit, I guess that means you won’t,” he says, because he does so love to see that soft fluster crawling its way up Rick’s neck, “and after all that trouble I got in to find you such a thick fucking mattress? You fucking _wound_ me, Rick. At least try one round, for me.” He tilts his head, lets a teasing, mocking kind of lilt seep into the words, “I’ll know if you don’t.”

“Is there a point to this, Negan, or should I start guessing,” and, fucking _okay_ , Rick’s actually managed to take him by surprise here. His sweet drawl’s morphed into something cross, demanding, and Negan sits up a little, smile sliding off his face like wet paint. “Why is there a bed here? What do you _want_?”

And, shit, there are _so_ many things Negan could say right now, a dozen decidedly indecent proposals already bubbling up behind his teeth, and he’s already let his gaze slide lazily over Rick’s sweat-slick body before his mind catches up with him and he realizes he might need to try a different approach, here; maybe, if he can make Rick believe this is an extended olive branch, a kind of white flag, just maybe―

“It’s a fucking _gift_ , Rick, fucking Christ,” he says, rolls his eyes, and there, he sounds sufficiently exasperated. He’s good at this. “You’ve been working your tight ass off for me lately, Rick, I thought I’d pay you back. And I do think your work performance will go through the roof if you start spending your nights in a nice warm bed, don’t you? Now, if you don’t _want_ it―”

“I don’t want it.”

 _I don’t want anything from you_ , he might as well have said out loud, for the way it fills the room up like a gas leak. Negan can practically hear it, feel it wrap around his neck like a noose.

“What,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say, because this shit is yet another one of Rick’s stupid, heroic, fucking ridiculous displays of pride and strength that Negan should have cut at the fucking root ―Negan really hasn’t got the time for it. “Did I hear you right just now, Rick? What do you mean you don’t fucking _want_ it?”

“Are you deaf,” Rick says, the words bursting from his mouth before he’s cross-referenced with his brain, taking half a step forward before he remembers to stop himself. His nostrils almost actually flare, and then he _does_ fucking say it, “I don’t want anything from you.”

Well, fuck him. Something kicks a little inside Negan’s chest, and, fine, he knows that _something_ has a name, but he’s not going to think it, because if he does this whole situation will plunge into levels of lameness previously untapped by mankind, and Negan’s not here to contemplate feelings. Or be _disappointed_ in the general lack of enthusiasm, or gratitude, or―

“No? You don’t, Rick?” he says, and it’s somewhat of a growl, but Rick only stares back with those unflinching blue eyes and there’s something sliding behind them, for the space of half a breath, something like ―pride? Like he’s managed to get the drop on Negan, somehow, like he caught the sharp half-flutter tucked right inside Negan’s ribcage.

“No,” Rick says slowly. “No. You wanna start handing out beds, you can start with the others. We got kids here, and old people. Sick people. You wanna be a savior, you gotta bring beds for them, not me.”

And there’s the unmistakable sarcastic, acidic lilt in the way he says it, _savior_ , spitting the word out like he can’t bear to keep it in his mouth for more than the fraction of a second.

“You trying to win the ‘Pissing Off People You Really Shouldn’t Fucking Piss Off’ trophy, Rick?” Negan bites out, because seriously, what the _hell_. He’s still sitting down, and is suddenly very conscious of the fact that Rick’s practically looming over him, his award-worthy glare pinning Negan to the mattress, but still he won’t get up. He won’t give Rick the satisfaction of looking fucking rattled. “Because I sure as fucking hell―”

“I’m serious,” Rick says, talking over him, and yet his voice is somehow softer, now. His expression hasn’t changed from its formidable frown, but there’s a clear, cutting moment where his shoulders slump, just a little, fingers loosening.

“I―” he starts, falters, steadies himself again, “if you think you’re helping here, you’re wrong, if you wanna help people, for real, you gotta―” and, damn him, he’s actually fucking running his mouth and he looks like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, “―shit, I don’t know why I’m saying all this, I know this is just another of your little _games_ , I shouldn’t be taking this seriously, of course you ain’t gonna help anyone, why do you―”

He stops. Just like that, Rick fucking deflates, and he’s turning his eyes away and it almost makes Negan breathe a little easier. The sweat still hasn’t cooled down on Rick’s body, tiny beads gathering right above his lip, dipping between his collarbones, and Negan’s gaze is drawn and glued there for all of two breaths.

“Alright,” Rick says, drawn-out, unsure, closing his eyes for a third of a beat longer than necessary. “I got work to do, Negan. I’m leaving,” he threatens. Doesn’t leave. Negan knew he wouldn’t. He knows a lot of things; how Rick’s face looks when it’s spattered with blood, or how it looks when he wants to die, and that sometimes, Negan doesn’t want to remember.

“O- _kay_ , Rick,” he says, because this is easier, “shit, I see the angst’s been raised to radioactive fucking levels, here. You need to calm down a little, cowboy, you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack. And then just _what_ is this gorgeous little suburb gonna do without you, Rick? You think I trust any of these assholes out there to take your place and keep the town running? I mean, maybe your girlfriend would do an alright job, that chick looks she could handle it, but my guess? Is she’ll be too busy mourning you to get any actual shit done. Or she’d try to run that samurai sword of hers through my dick. So, no, I’d very much like to keep dealing with you, Rick.”

None of the above is untrue, precisely. Rick’s a wildcard; there’s more than enough hatred simmering just behind the lines of his face, coiled around his spine, and he never quite fails to look like he’s thinking up a hundred different, very creative and very, very nasty ways to kill Negan inside his head.

But he’s the _competent_ sort of wildcard, too. He gets work _done_.

And, yeah, he’s got those blue eyes and that goddamned mouth that would look like a fucking _dream_ around Negan’s cock, but that’s irrelevant, and _not_ why Negan’s here, and this is getting so pathetic Negan will happily pretend he didn’t just think that, his mind never took that road.

Rick’s silent, as if he hasn’t got anything to say to all this, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to answer, and all this quiet is cloying and hanging too pressing, too heavy ―so Negan lets his smile stretch like a knife wound, leans back against the pillows as languidly as he can, because this is nothing if not a show.

“C’ _mon_ , Rick, cheer the fuck up. I do mean it when I say I wanna keep you around. Keep you in charge. What does a man have to do to make that frowny face of yours go away?” He pats the empty space on the bed next to him, “want me to kiss it and make it better?”

He knows he’s exaggerating it, right here, the way he makes his voice go lower, biting his lip in some sort of faux-lasciviousness, like he’s never actually thought it, never actually wanted it.

For a split second Rick goes inhumanly still, like he can’t quite believe Negan went there ―seriously, has Rick _met_ him?

He raises his eyebrows and keeps smiling and this is all a little wonderful, really, making Rick squirm and blush ―because Rick’s the kind of guy who’ll clench his teeth and glare and fight with every last inch of strength he’s got left, won’t admit weakness, not even under gunpoint. Negan’s pretty sure he’s the only man who’s ever managed to _break_ that defiance, that admirable, beautiful pride of Rick’s, so thoroughly.

Even if it was only for one terrible, bloody, glorious fucking night.

(Some days, he thinks he might like to do it again.)

Except Rick doesn’t squirm. Or blush. He just sighs, a small tired sound that he can’t stop ―because he would if he could, Negan’s sure of it. He runs a hand over his face, slow, miserable. “Okay,” he says, and it’s little more than an exhaled breath, a low, resigned thing, “alright, Negan, kiss it and make it better.”

And ―no. Pause, rewind, reset.

Negan blinks, once, twice, keeps looking up at Rick who’s standing there, in the middle of his bare bedroom like an invisible string hanging from the ceiling is all that’s keeping him upright. Tired and sweaty and spent and staring down at Negan with his broken hardness turned to a numb, blood-sucking exhaustion.

All that proud strength leaking from the cracks. Like Rick’s tried and tried and can’t keep it inside any longer.

(No, Negan wouldn’t like to do it again.)

“That,” he says, slowly, because what the fuck did Rick just _say_ , that was not what Rick was supposed to say, “might work if you put some more conviction into it, Rick, but I can see what’s going on here. You hate your sorry self, you wanna hate your sorry self some more, so hey, let’s kiss the guy who killed my buddies and go down my big ol’ pit of martyrdom and self fucking hatred, I _get_ that. I do. You want me to fuck you so you can get one more thing to feel all guilty about and cry yourself to sleep? Sorry, Rick, not gonna show up to your fucking pity party.”

He doesn’t know how Rick _does_ this. How he can reach out an invisible hand and mess up the carefully structured wires Negan’s set up for them. Their pre-determined lines. This is a play, this is a goddamn show: they have their roles, and Rick’s going off script now, leaving Negan staring after him with no idea what the fuck to do, because this isn’t― this isn’t _right_.

He wants Rick on his knees, yeah ―he wants Rick shaking, and he wants Rick afraid, and he wants Rick bent. But not broken. Because then he won’t be fucking _Rick_ , will he.

Rick huffs out something that’s more growl than laugh, and it’s an empty, hollow thing. “What?” he says, and the light’s hitting him at odd angles from the open window and it’d be too easy for him to look very small like this, his outline blurring against the sun and the white walls, but he doesn’t. He just looks tired. “What? You playing hard to get, now? You’ve been touching me and telling me ―saying _all that shit_ to me, all this time, and now?”

Now what.

Negan pushes himself off the bed and he’s crossed the room before he can feel himself moving, coming to a halt a breath’s worth away from Rick, staring down at him. He half-expects Rick to stumble away, look down, try to hide inside himself. He doesn’t, because he’s not that sort of guy. Things would be easier if he was.

“Listen, Rick,” he growls out, and maybe he should just fucking go. Back. Go back home, where everything’s a perfect fucking microcosm he can _control_ , fit and tailored to his liking. Structured, orbiting around him. Go back and have someone else deal with Rick and his bullshit and his pathetic little suburb, pretend Rick doesn’t challenge half the things Negan’s taught himself since the world started breaking just by fucking looking at him, pretend he doesn’t keep coming back for ―what, exactly? For Rick?

Rick swallows down nothing, and his gaze doesn’t waver under Negan’s, even though the heat behind it is gone, dissolved into secondhand smoke. Flat baby blues locked in place like he doesn’t even care enough anymore.

“I’m listening,” Rick says coolly, and Negan realizes he was about to say something cruel, something appropriately terrible, let himself sink further into his own stereotype, and it got tangled and cut apart somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

 _I’m listening_ , Rick says, but he isn’t, not really. Half of him maybe died in that forest, quietly, messily, a puddle of blood and all the world’s ugly, and Negan’s not sorry for _that_ , for any of it; but the other half, the one that pushed itself to its feet and resolved to keep fighting, the one Negan could respect, it’s withering. Going cold and colder, with all the clarity of a corpse’s eyes snapping open again. And if Negan was a different man, he would be sorry. Sorry for doing _this_ to him.

But he isn’t.  And Negan’s always been better at sticking his finger inside an open wound than he is at patching the wound up, anyway, so― “okay, fuck, I guess you really mean this shit, huh. But if you really wanna fucking _convince_ me, Rick, take off that shirt.”

Rick takes off the shirt.

Negan blinks. Maybe stops breathing for the edge of one moment. There _should_ be an actual option for a pause, rewind and reset.

“ _Rick_.”

He’s gorgeous, and tan and slick with sweat, and flushed, and that’s not what matters here. Rick closes the space between them in one fluid, careless movement, leans close enough that Negan can smell the road and the forest and the dust on him, and suddenly there’s a hand at his jacket, twisting forcefully around leather, pulling him forward, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.

He wants this, yeah, he wants this so bad it almost fucking hurts to keep still, and he’s less than one fever-hot touch away from pushing Rick down on the floor, pull at his hair, bite through the wet skin at his neck, but― “Rick, what the fuck are you doing.”

Because, honestly? What the fuck _is_ Rick doing.

Rick lets out a sound that could be anything, and he’s angry now. Good. Negan can deal with an angry Rick.

“I’m doing what you _want_ ,” he grits out, and it rumbles down Negan’s own throat, bleeds like welts across the inside of his chest, “ain’t that the point, Negan, everyone doing what you want?”

Rick’s still clenching his fingers in Negan’s shirt, pulling like a man about to die, and the fabric will fucking rip and then it’ll be some grand metaphor for something Negan really doesn’t want to give a fuck about.

 _Yeah_ , he doesn’t say, _yeah, that’s the fucking point_. It is. It isn’t.

He lets his mouth crash against Rick’s instead, a violent, stuttering mess, feels Rick’s lips part on a silent growl under his. He’s shouldering off his jacket just as Rick’s hands let go of his shirt and latch onto his belt instead, pulling at leather and metal with a frantic kind of desperation, and Negan tries and fails to keep himself from moaning into the kiss, feels something like the outline of a half-smile form across Rick’s mouth.

He runs his hands down Rick’s bare arms, scratches along the length of his spine, splays his fingers across Rick’s ribs. He hears a clinking thud and his belt’s on the floor, Rick’s fingers working to get his zipper down, pulling at the waist of his pants. Negan makes a soft sound he can’t stop when Rick’s mouth leaves his, sucks in a sharp breath when he feels it, a second later, kiss along the side of his neck. Rick’s hand is already wrapped around his cock, hard enough that it’s almost painful, and Negan groans, pushes into it, lifts up a hand to run through Rick’s damp curls.

And just as Rick _bites_ down, just above Negan’s collarbone, he realizes, with something like a jolt, that maybe the half of Rick that’s not dead isn’t withering away, after all. That, maybe, this defiant kind of submission is its own kind of warfare; that, maybe, Rick’s not done fighting just yet.

And, shit, if that’s _true_ ―he smiles, laughs a little into Rick’s hair, lets Rick push him up against the wall.

His back crashes on it and Rick’s lips curl into something nearly cruel at the pained expression that flashes across Negan’s face, but he doesn’t stop. He nuzzles his face into Negan’s shoulder again, bites, kisses, his hands slipping down without preamble.

If he could think a bit more clearly, Negan might’ve been slightly ashamed of his own body’s responsiveness, the way he can’t quite keep himself from moving his hips against Rick’s touch, how his fingers are gripping every exposed inch of Rick’s skin he can reach. But he’s got a fucking reputation to uphold, even if no one’s exactly around to watch ―he doesn’t _get_ embarrassed, remember. They should probably give out awards for this sort of thing. Medals of appreciation, at the very least. But Rick’s teeth have found a spot under Negan’s ear and it has him letting out sounds he’s not even going to bother keeping bottled up.

“Fuck,” he says, growls, breathes, clutching at Rick like a lifeline, “fuck, you’re so―”

But then Rick’s dropping down, Rick’s on his knees, Rick’s looking up at Negan through bright eyelashes and he’s got a shiny mouth and fuck him, fuck him for doing this, fuck him for knowing exactly what to do―

Rick’s on his knees and Negan’s fucking weak, lets Rick slap his hand away when he tries to wind it around Rick’s neck, through Rick’s curls. “Stop talking,” Rick says, and licks a hot, wet stripe along the underside of Negan’s cock. “Stop talking,” he says, taking him in his mouth, _stop talking_ , _stop talking_ , and Negan does.

He gets lost in the feeling of Rick's lips and Rick's tongue and Rick's hands, the wet sounds he's making, the little choked gasps. His own exhaled breaths and growls, torn from his throat every time Rick sinks his head a little further down. Negan's not the one on the floor, but he might as well have been. He moans, feels it rattle in his chest, lays a hand on Rick's naked shoulder. Rick lets him, and it makes something drop inside Negan's stomach, and he moans again, can't fucking help it, can't―

They never even make it to the goddamn bed.

He comes hard, clutching Rick’s shoulder too tightly, nails digging into skin and probably drawing blood. Negan’s head falls back into the wall with a thud and it fucking hurts even as he almost doesn’t feel it, but he hears the muffled sound Rick makes around his cock, feels Rick’s fingers drag down his thighs. A violent shudder snakes down his spine, curls into ever corner of his body, shaking him from the inside.

Rick pulls away, wipes his mouth, is still on his knees.

Negan’s panting and Rick’s just fucking kneeling there, his face still tired, still cold, still calm, and Negan’s seen it before, fuck, he’s seen this exact fucking expression on Rick’s face before; _not today, not tomorrow, but I’m gonna kill you_.

He looks away because he can’t not look away, pulls up his zipper with more force than necessary as Rick rises, slowly, slowly, to his feet. Rick won’t smile about this; it isn’t a victory. But it isn’t a defeat, either.

Negan shoves at him, legs shaking, pushes him back into the same wall. Looms over Rick, hooks a thumb inside Rick’s jeans.

“Your turn,” he says, a wide, scalpel-sharp grin finding its way across his lips on auto-pilot.

Rick nearly flinches away, but manages to control it well enough. And what if Negan’s doing this just to hurt Rick? All’s fair in love and war and all that shit, and this sure as hell ain’t love. And all he’s learned since corpses started trying to eat him, is how to stay alive, and how to hurt people.

Rick looks up at him, eyes hard. “No need,” he says, and how the fuck is he still keeping his voice this calm, a gravel-dead drawl, “wasn’t doing you a favor. Just doing what you want, Negan.”

All Rick’s learned is how to stay alive and hurt people too, of course.

Everyone has, really; it’s why they’re all still here.

So Negan moves away, and he thinks he can see Rick breathe a little easier, now. “And what a mighty fine fucking job you did at it, Rick,” he says, keeps smiling, and it’s not as sharply mocking as he intended, but Rick pretends not to realize. Negan takes another step back, and another, picks up his discarded belt and his jacket like it all means something, like none of it means anything. “Should I hold out for round two?”

Rick almost sighs, and then doesn’t. “No,” he says simply.

Negan lets out a sound that might’ve been a chuckle. Of course not. He looks around; the room’s still bare, the window’s still open, the bed’s still made. The sunlight’s a shade deeper, now, dipping towards red, and just how fucking long _has_ he been up here? He looks back at Rick who’s still half-naked and still looking back with glass-blue eyes, every line on his face deeper, it seems, harder.

“ _Shit_ , we’re losing light,” he says, in lieu of nothing, what the fuck else is he supposed to say, “guess that’s goodbye for now, Rick.”

“Yeah,” Rick says, and nothing else. Negan isn’t sure why the hell he was expecting something else. And, after a moment’s pause, “you gotta take back the bed.”

Negan stands there, staring at Rick staring at him. He shrugs on his jacket, looks away. “Keep the fucking bed, Rick.”

 

 

 


End file.
